Going Home, Part III, Food

Food is very important to my family. 

Because we had three newcomers (my son-in-law and two grands) to initiate into the food fold during our recent trip to Rhode Island, we planned our itinerary around unique local delicacies.

Portuguese sweet bread (masa sovada) from Cornerstone Bakery awaited us at the homestead. Buttered to the edges and toasted under the broiler, it is manna with a Portuguese twist. 

“How can this taste so good?” my son-in-law wondered aloud. Eggs, butter, and a pound of sugar might have something to do with it, Son. 

The thought of malasadas, fluffy circles of fried dough coated with sugar, lured me from my bed early Sunday morning. Now that the first generation of Portuguese immigrant women has passed on, few are willing to go through the process of mixing the dough, letting it rise twice, then forming it into flat rounds ready to fry. Corner bakeries have taken their place, but only on Sunday mornings. 

Photo credit: Cassandra at www.frillyfabulous.wordpress.com

“Once they’re gone, they’re gone,” the baker said when I called to inquire, “so you’d better get here early.” 

The memory of watching my grandmother drop perfectly formed ovals into a steaming pan of oil, then pass them to me for sugaring propelled me out of the house early that Sunday morning. A block from the bakery, the smell of golden deliciousness drew me in like the siren’s song. I paused, inhaled deeply, and held my breath, eyes closed in delight. Gloriously content to stand and savor, I stood there until an angry growl from my empty stomach propelled me the rest of the way to the bakery. 

“The only advertisement you need is that smell,” I said to the dark-eyed girl behind the counter. She smiled, then blinked twice when I placed my order. 

“Twelve?” she repeated, certain she’d heard wrong. 

“Twelve,” I said. “It’s been a long time.” 

Del’s frozen lemonade, Maple Walnut ice cream, and the Newport Creamery’s legendary Awful Awful (a milkshake so named because it’s “Awful Big and Awful Good,”) guided the week's itinerary. 

My mom and her cousin shared a New England Clam Boil, fishing out little neck clams and dunking them into melted butter. My daughter bravely swallowed a bite of the rubbery shellfish. We passed a basket of Quito’s clam cakes around the table, and the coffee lovers among us licked over-filled cones of Rhode Island Lighthouse Coffee ice cream. Long walks around the bay helped counteract our dietary indescretions. 

For me, the greatest joy came not from eating the delicacies I’ve loved since childhood, but from sharing them. The ritual of food is risky. Would I have loved my new son-in-law even if he turned up his nose at my favorite ice cream? Absolutely. Did I love him more as we shared a grin and a nod over cones piled high with sweet deliciousness? You bet. 

One of my favorite snapshot is this one of my granddaughter. Smiling broadly, she holds a malasada in one hand and a piece of sweet bread in the other. That’s my girl. You may not look Portuguese, little one, but you are. 

God could have created us without taste buds. Without taste, eating would be utilitarian—a necessary obligation to keep us alive. Instead, he created us with the ability to taste, and savor, and delight. 

Then, to make it even sweeter, he placed us in families. Together we can share not only the necessary parts of cooking and eating, but also the relational parts. Around the table, against the backdrop of good food, we laugh, and talk, and share. We tempt each other with delicacies, squabble over who gets the last bite of something good, and compare likes and dislikes. Food is the magic elixir that soothes grumpy toddlers and hard working men. 

Sometimes, opportunities to gather around the table with distant family and close kin make me a little homesick for heaven. One day, we’ll gather at a feast that will put our simple meals to shame (Rev. 19). Family members from generations gone by will take their places around the table, we’ll join hands, and our Father will pronounce the blessing. 

“For the loved ones gathered here and for the food we are about to receive, we are grateful.” 

I’m looking forward to that celebration. I suspect you are, too. In the meantime, may we enjoy many happy meals around our family tables. 

Would you like to chime in? What’s your family’s favorite food? Do you have a special traditional meal that you’ve shared from one generation to another? Leave a comment below and share your story. If you’re reading by email, click here to visit Hungry for God online, scroll to the bottom of the post, and leave a comment there. 

If you missed the earlier blog posts in the Going Home series, click HERE to read “There’s Something Magical about Going Home,” or click HERE for “Going Home, Part II – Family."

And if you'd like a recipe for Malasadas, Portuguese doughnuts, click here to visit Cassandra at FrillyFabulous.

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Going Home Part II, Family

 When my first granddaughter, Lauren, was born, I realized God had fulfilled Psalm 128:6 in my life: 

“Yea, thou shalt see thy children's children . . .” 

In my last blog post, “There's Something Magical About Going Home,” I promised to share a few stories and pictures from my recent trip to Bristol, Rhode Island. Today’s post, “Going Home Part II—Family” tells the best part of the story. Perhaps I should have saved it for last, but I couldn’t wait to share the smiles. 


When it puts its best face forward, family gives us a glimpse of what heaven is going to be like. Leisurely meals around the table, familiar stories, and lots of hugs and laughter. Unfortunately, these extended family events are becoming more and more rare, especially now that our daughters are married and have begun families of their own. When the planets align, the earth tilts perfectly on its axis, and everyone’s busy schedules overlap, we occasionally manage to gather in one place. Most of the time, however, we visit in smaller groups. 

My recent trip to Rhode Island was uniquely special, because four generations of women from my immediate family met in my hometown—my mom, myself, my daughters, and my granddaughters. 

Four generations, ranging in age from 72 to 1. 

In addition to the miracle of gathering with my immediate family, my mom and her two cousins, daughters of three siblings who sailed from the Azores with their mother in 1919, also had opportunities to visit. Now that their mothers have passed away, (the youngest died at 94-1/2 and the oldest at 98), these women have taken their places as the matriarchs of our family. 

I, one generation distant, watched them with an objectivity they didn’t have. With every smile, laugh, and gesture, I saw glimpses of the women who birthed them. One cousin has her mother’s high cheekbones and soft voice. The other has her mom’s keen mind and love for learning. Watching two cousins’ hands cradle steaming cups of coffee, I noticed that they were identical. One pair of hands had traveled the world, while the other had stayed close to home, but they were similarly beautiful. 

The irony that, two generations later, we again have a sailor in the family escaped no one. One day my son-in-law invited us to have lunch with him at the Officers’ Club in Newport. Driving through the gates of the base transported my mother back to a younger time when life was simple and romance blossomed. 

“Your father took me here once,” she said. Her eyes crinkled at the memory of her handsome sailor. “Some nights he’d have to walk back to base after he took me home—or hitchhike, because we’d talked for so long he missed the last bus. What in the world did we talk about?” 

Showing my hometown to my children, son-in-law, and grandchildren gave me the opportunity to put flesh on the bones of my life. When they saw the spiral staircase in the Rogers Free Library, they understood why I spent more time there than anywhere else. When they stood at the stone wall that encircles Bristol Harbor, they knew why it was my favorite place to write and think. When they rested in the shade of the tree-lined streets, smelled the salty sea air, and watched the sailboats skim across the bay, they understood why my eyes light up whenever anyone mentions Rhode Island. 

Visiting my hometown helps my family understand me. Visiting my hometown also helps me understand me. Remembering the sunny landscape covered in three feet of snow reminds me why I hate cold and love the South. Driving by the 864-foot home where our family of five lived explains why I’m so excited about having a bedroom big enough to fit a bed, a dresser, and a chair. Walking past the little apartment where my Granny lived reinforces my determination to be a wonderful grandmother just like she was. 

We don’t get to choose our family, and not every relationship within the circle is a happy one. Rose-colored glasses aside, families can be our greatest source of joy or our greatest source of pain. It’s my prayer today that whatever side of the pendulum you’re on, you’ll ask God to show you how to be the best family member you can be, for his glory. 

“A good man leaves an inheritance to his children's children” (Pro. 13:22).

CLICK HERE to read "Going Home, Part III, Food"

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